“Busy day?”

She half smiles in response, so tired that she can barely force her face into any state other than neutral. Her silk nightgown shimmers purple in the soft glow of the bedside lamp and she floats to her side of the bed and melts into the duvet, curling up in it’s warm embrace. At the end of a long day there is nowhere she would rather be, nestled in a cotton-polyester womb as her eyes begin to close.

“Do you think it’s too late for us to have kids?”

A beat. She wants to recoil, vomit and flee. Her eyes dart open and she stares at the far wall, unable to look at her husband. The question that she has so dreaded for years; finally freed from the darkest recesses of her soul. It begins oozing out of the darkness of the room, demanding to be heard. She stares into it, horrified, and attempts to kill it with an answer.

“It is for me”